That fate had nail'd upon my back.
"I wish'd to figure as Othello,
But he was a fine, straight-made fellow,
Whom, with a shape, so crook'd, so bent,
I could not dare to represent,
And though his face was olive brown,
No injury his form had known;
While mine, in its unseemly guise,
Fair Desdemona must despise: |
Nor could it be a bard's design,
That love-sick maids should e'er incline
To such an outrag'd shape as mine. | } |
My voice possess'd a tender strain,
That could express a lover's pain;
But such a figure never yet
Was seen to win a Juliet.
Nay ladies lolling in a box,
Would think it a most curious hoax,
If through their glasses they should see
Lord Townly such an imp as me.
Thus for a month or more, Jack Page
Fretted and strutted on the stage,
Sometimes affording Richard's figure
In all its native twist and vigour;
Or bearing kick, or smack, or thump
From Harlequin upon his hump.
Though I say not, I was ill-paid
For the fine acting I display'd.
Nay, had I less mis-shapen been,
I might to the Theatric scene,
Have turn'd my strange life's future views,
And courted the Dramatic Muse. |
"But as I could not smooth my shape
From the hips upwards to the nape,
And as to so confin'd a round
My imitative powers were bound,
My Genius I resolv'd to try
In writing Farce or Comedy,
In which I could exert my art
For my dear self to form a part